


The Impenitent

by thesparklingone



Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Estimeric Week (Final Fantasy XIV), Estimeric Week 2020, Fantasizing, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, lying to priests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25838410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesparklingone/pseuds/thesparklingone
Summary: “We all have our weaknesses,” the priest replied. “Thus we pray the Blessed Fury grant us mercy. What else have you to confess, Captain Aymeric?” Father Clausent paused. “I understand that soldiers often fall prey to the desires of the flesh…?”(Written for the Day 3 prompt, "Secrets.")
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1872139
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: Estimeric Week 2020





	The Impenitent

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for some fantasizing.
> 
> If it so interests you, the Estimeric Week twitter account is here: https://twitter.com/estimericweek1

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

A rustling of robes behind the partition, as Father Clausent shifted in his seat.

“It has been six weeks since my last confession.”

The priest cleared his throat. “I understand you have been stationed in the field, Ser Aymeric. Was your unit chaplain unable to provide the Sacrament of Penance while abroad?”

“We were hard-pressed nearly the entire campaign, Father,” Aymeric replied. “Unfortunately, neither I nor my men found much time for spiritual reflection.”

I see,” Clausent replied. “Do proceed, ser.”

Aymeric began to list his sins.

He had lost his temper with a junior knight under his command and spoken harshly and unfairly. He had argued publicly with one of his lieutenants instead of dressing down the man away from the eyes of his subordinates. He had miscalculated in a flanking maneuver against a Dravanian watering hole, resulting in a soldier’s injury, though fortunately it had not been serious. He had neglected his studies of the Enchiridion. He had failed to show proper deference to Commander Georoix when he returned to Ishgard.

“I understand you and Commander Georoix have somewhat of a history of animosity,” Father Clausent said.

Aymeric’s jaw tightened.

Commander Georoix de Sibelle had vigorously opposed both of Aymeric’s promotions—first to lieutenant, then to captain. Each time, he had insisted that, while he had no qualms about promoting bastard sons in theory—indeed, he claimed to believe that enlistment in the Temple Knights and service to Ishgard was the most honorable path for all those cursed with such a fate—the particular rumors surrounding Ser Aymeric’s heritage were sufficient to make his elevation a liability to the Congregation, regardless of any other factor. It mattered not that the rumors of Aymeric’s parentage were just that, rumors, never proven and never confirmed, and it mattered not how much his commanding officers had praised his mettle in battle and his ability to inspire loyalty among his peers and now subordinates. No, the tale upon the tongue of every stark gossip in Ishgard was that Ser Aymeric de Borel was the illegitimate son of the Archbishop himself, and those words were enough to forever mark and mar him.

Silently, Aymeric exhaled through his nose and let his tension go. It was what it was, and ever had it been since the days of his earliest memories. He was here to be released from his sin and enmity, not to wallow in it. In the end, the lord commander had disagreed with his officer. Aymeric had successfully ascended rank, and it did him no favors to hold a grudge against Ser Georoix.

“Aye,” Aymeric said, bowing his head further against his clasped hands. “The commander and I often clash in opinion.”

“Yet he remains your superior officer. I know this to be something I have assigned you penance for in the past. So shall I do again.”

“I understand,” Aymeric conceded. “This does remain a weakness of mine.”

“We all have our weaknesses,” the priest replied. “Thus we pray the Blessed Fury grant us mercy. What else have you to confess, Captain Aymeric?” Father Clausent paused. “I understand that soldiers often fall prey to the desires of the flesh…?”

This was an area of inquiry the priests often pressed. Moreso now since his promotions and he had his suspicions as to why. The Temple Knights had a deeply mixed reputation within Ishgard. At their best, they were defenders of the city and of Coerthas, protecting her people from the endless dragon hordes that constantly threatened them. At their worst, they were bullies, persecuting the very people they were sworn to protect, publicly carousing and drinking to excess, and yes, frequenting the illegal brothels of the Brume.

Aymeric tensed. Something akin to ice dropped into the pit of his stomach, as it did each and every time he knelt before the partition in the confessional box, this truth carving a hole in his gut. When he spoke, his voice was measured and practiced.

“Given the circumstances of my birth, Father, I find I am not wont to pursue such activities. I have no desire to risk condemning a child to the fate into which I, myself, was born.”

“An admirable conviction,” replied the priest. “So is that all, then?”

It was not.

It never was.

There was also:

_Quartz-white hair cascading against onyx plate. Broad shoulders sliding beneath wicked metal; the flash of gold trim at the lines of the hips. The vicious curve of a blade beside the elegant arch of a muscular calf. The flex of a powerful thigh, barely contained in mythril and steel. An arse to make the Fury Herself weep, all the Twelve help him—and for that prayer would he be a heretic, too._

In his Drachen mail, Estinien was a god of death, and Aymeric could not imagine anything even half as erotic. Ever did, and ever would, that image slip behind his eyelids as his own hand would slip beneath his waistband alone in his bed at night, seeking animal pleasure, seeking release, seeking sin. It made his skin burn all over, right here in the confessional booth, to think of it, and that blaze beneath his weak, unholy flesh was how he knew it was what he most needed to confess.

_My dearest wish is to make my dearest friend my lover._

And how he could imagine it, how he could envision every detail, every place on that magnificent body that his hands and mouth would roam, how he could hear in his mind the sound of Estinien’s voice lost to pleasure, calling his name. How he could taste the salt of his skin, smell the tang of sweat and sex that would wreath them together. How he could see that white hair spread upon his pillows, those blue eyes rolling back, that pink mouth wide and gasping, those strong thighs spread beneath his hips.

It would never happen. And he would never speak of it. For years he had not, and he would not now begin.

 _Halone forgive me_ , he thought, not for the first time, and not for the last.

Aloud he said, “This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd lie to an Ishgardian priest about my impure thoughts, too, honestly.


End file.
